To think, he first thought this case would be boring. Not a murder, just a simple counterfeiting ring. Dull. Probably be over in two hours. Sherlock was never happier to be wrong. Not when the counterfeiter led to a drug ring, human trafficking group, and an international smuggling operation. In one night, Sherlock had successfully put the London branches of two major crime families out of business, and it all terminated in a thrilling chase across the roofs of London as the original suspect tried to make his escape. When they finally cornered him, John pulled his gun and very politely convinced him to come quietly. If they hadn’t been working, Sherlock would’ve jumped John right there. The only thing that could have made tonight better would’ve been getting a blow job while Anderson sobbed in the corner.

--After Case After Care, bu (AO3)round_robin, (John/Sherlock)

===

“Respice post te. Hominem te esse memento. Memento mori,” he whispers.

“What the bloody fuck?”

“It’s Latin. Look behind you. Remember that you are but a man. Remember that you will die. When a Roman general won a major victory over the barbarian hordes, they gave him a big party and a parade. He was essentially elected a god for the day. During the parade a servant would whisper those sentences in his ear, I suppose to make sure he didn’t get too far above himself. The senators hated it when one of their own got too powerful. It’s why they offed Julius Caesar. Conspiracies again: I suppose all empires have them.”

Toby takes another hit, then stubs out the joint. “People used to think about death all the time. That poster is a memento mori: See the flower and the hourglass on either side of the skull? They’re remembrances that things don’t last. Time fades every flower. ‘Gather ye rosebuds while ye may’ is not just a pretty verse. Pick some posies, fuck your lover, because you’ll both be wormfood soon enough. Sooner than that, if the Powers That Be have their way.”

--

“Fuck you, I’m not leaving,” Victor shoots back at Vi. “Ford asked me to be nice to Sherlock.”

“Ford asked me to be nice to him. I’ve got a lot more riding on this than you.”

“Oh, you think so? You’re not the only one who wants an Oscar someday.”

“You are such a selfish prick—”

“You can both be bloody nice to me,” Sherlock says. “If you promise to quit talking about my brother. Because honestly, if you keep bringing him up there’s not going to be enough cocaine in the world to keep me from losing my erection. Especially since it’s so obvious that you two are in love with each other, despite this rather tiresome Beatrice and Benedict impersonation you are indulging in. That’s a Shakespeare reference, in case you’re curious, I know Americans get a bit lost when you go beyond Romeo and Juliet. In any event, before my brain chews itself to pieces with sensory overload, and before I grind my teeth down to bloody nubs from this quite stunning cocaine, provided by He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named, can we please shag already?”

There is a beat of silence.

“Shit,” Violet says. “He talks.”

--

“He gets angry all the time watching telly. Yells at the chat shows and news reports. Has a fine time. He looked—” John stops. “Blank. But not his I’m-crawling-into-my-mental-treehouse-for-a-bit-and-pulling-up-the-rope-ladder-behind-me sort of blank. A sick blank. Don’t know if that makes sense.”

--

Though Irene is about the last person John wants to spend a quiet evening with, he really has been trying to get along. Good of the case and all that. But who the fuck does she think she is, calling Sherlock a freak? She laces herself in a corset and spanks naughty MPs for a living.

--

Okay, it’s later. Everything all right? —N

No. He’s advising the fucking barrister on fucking criminal procedure. –J

::face palm:: –N

It gets better. He just characterized Moriarty as, and I quote, ‘not a man at all. He’s a spider at the center of a web. A criminal web with a thousand threads’ Fuck me. –J

So much for simple. –N

CHRIST SHERLOCK DON’T START DEDUCING THE SODDING JURY —J

Go down there and smack him. Quick. Just like curbing a cocker spaniel. –N

Too fucking late. Judge banged him up for contempt. Have to go. Have to call Harry. –J

Right, of course. Drinks later on? I think you could use one. Or many. –N

All the scotch in fucking Scotland. —J

--

“I’m not falling for it. Not again.”

The cat fixes earnest eyes on him. He manages to give the impression that he has no idea what Sherlock is referring to. He crooks his big white paws like the most innocent of woolly lambs.

“Fine. If nothing else will please you.” Sherlock buries his hand in silky fluff. He gets in two good rubs before Faust convulses like a cobra. Claws dig into Sherlock’s arm while his palm is poked by razor-sharp teeth. Faust does not press down, but he has his prey securely trapped.

“Yes, you’ve caught me. Very clever.”

Green eyes blaze at Sherlock triumphantly.

“My hand is dead. You, Faust the Inexorable, the Irresistible, have killed it. What a magnificent predator you are. Now let go, please.” Sherlock carefully pulls back as Faust gums his knuckles with mock-ferocity.

--

"That evidence isn't going to tamper with itself."

--

Then she picked up his gun: “Browning nine millimeter semiautomatic. Hmm.” She flicked the safety and tucked it into the back of her tight jeans. “You get this back when you are not drunk. This is how my cousin Sava lose his tentacles.”

“Testicles,” Sherlock put in.

“Yes. Those. His wife leave him. Very sad,” she said, as she began cleaning the puke off of John with business-like efficiency. Clearly, this is a woman with her priorities firmly in hand.

--Miracle Year by (AO3)Chase820, (Sherlock/OFC/OMC, Sherlock, John/OMCs, Sherlock/Irene, Sherlock/John)

===

“Molly says you’re a detective of sorts: sounds like an interesting job. What are you doing today then?”

“Testing semen samples, flagellating corpses and suffering through inane conversations, apparently.” Sherlock smiles toothily.

That goes right over Mike’s head. “God, must be terrible. What does the missus think of that?”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “There is no missus.” Inwardly, he shudders at the thought. Marriage makes one soft-headed and likely to coo over infants, to best of his knowledge. The only good type of marriage, in Sherlock’s book, is the type that leads to a nice, bloody murder.

--

“You know, Molly always seems like a good sort-”

“Not my type.” Though frankly, having a new makeup trick every-time he walked in was no end of useful. The way cosmetics could transform a face was remarkable, he really ought to get a better study going on that. Sherlock mentally resolves to ask Molly for the loan of her cosmetics box. With any luck, such a request will kill two birds with one stone.

--Just Another Day, by (AO3)shirleyholmes, (gen)

===

Greg crossed to wrap his arms around John from behind and plant a kiss on the back of his neck. "Definitely. This is rather homey of you."

"It's just bacon and eggs."

"It's like having a wife again."

"If this is a crack about me taking it up the arse, you can kindly fuck off." John's tone was good-natured, though, and Greg grinned against his skin.

"My wife never took it up the arse -- at least she didn't take mine. Come to think of it, she didn't fix me breakfast very often either."

"She didn't know what she was missing." John leaned back against him slightly, and Greg felt a pulse of pleasure at the way their bodies fit together.

--

John gave him a long look. "You said no experiments. You threatened him with bodily harm."

Greg clenched his jaw. "I may have changed my mind."

John's eyes widened. "Oh God, don't tell me. What, did he bribe you with sexual favors?"

Greg felt heat rise to his cheeks. "It wasn't just that."

John rolled his eyes. "You are so whipped."

"He sucked my cock for an hour. What was I supposed to do?"

"Reattach your bollocks, apparently."

"Get the fucking beer, John, and let it go."

--The Making Of, by (AO3)emmagrant01, (Greg/John, Greg/Sherlock, Sherlock/John, Greg/John/Sherlock)

This entry was originally posted here at my DW journal. You can comment here or there. :)

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